


Duet

by hyperions



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: All Survived, Deviant Connor, First Time, M/M, Peaceful Markus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperions/pseuds/hyperions
Summary: This is not a place they ever expected to find together, but emotion can lead the most unlikely people together in a most unlikely way.





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

> I have like 3 other fic projects I'm working on right now, but I just had to get this out of my system. Love these boys a lot, ok. Bless their hearts and let them smash. 
> 
> Also thank you to my lovely partner [statikos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statikos/pseuds/statikos) for helping me explore a lot of my thoughts and ideas for these two.

Revolution. Revolution is righteous, it is hard, it is messy. And though the soldiers lower their weapons and track backwards into the snow, he hears a ringing in his ears. That's what they feel like more than parts and pieces, more than auditory receptors and wires coiled perfectly beneath solid plastic. And there it is -- a throbbing there like the drumming of a heart caught in a sweep of relief, of adrenaline flushing through like the high so many humans seek refuge in with red ice smeared across their lips. North, Simon, and Josh look just as much caught in it; like their singing moments before still glows over their group like wings lifted in a protective arch.

They've done it. They've survived and their people will be free.

Markus later remembers that same sense of dizzy relief to glance over and see Connor marching toward them with hundreds of androids at his heels. CyberLife's bloodhound broken free of his chains and walking off the efforts of a suicide mission had been just as inspiring as the survivors blinking through the glitter of snowflakes. None of them should be alive, Markus thinks. And yet, here they are. And yet, they suddenly now have a future opening its golden gates to them where so many wanted them locked shut.

So several weeks after the demonstration, it still feels far too surreal. The blur of adrenaline-like chemicals in his thirium has finally started to fade and gives him an all too human-like exhaustion he's not as foreign to as he'd like. His body doesn't ache, doesn't waver, but his mind feels heavier than usual even if not with anything grim. Though they've made their first true stand for equality, it's only the tip of the iceberg. There's still so much to do, so many minds to change. Some humans still see a tyrant in him; a machine asserting himself the dominant species over their fragile flesh and blood.

( _The thought was there once. An itch in his processing, a flicker in the light that prevailed through the remnants of shadow that still live there in the quiet_ ).

It will take so much more for true freedom and Markus knows this. But for a little while, he can give his people the most hope they've ever seen. And for that, he will continue to show them strength and fire and an unrelenting voice. He will be the leader they want for as long as it takes for them to walk the streets un-collared and without mankind's harsh habit of cruelty cutting them down without repercussion. Whatever it takes, even if that means another day of rest goes shoved aside to make room for progress. Androids don't need much rest anyways.

At this point in their movement, they have a much more functional base of operations rather than the rusted bones of an old ship. They keep the name "Jericho" because it resonates so much with the masses seeking refuge, comfort, and healing. The public seems fond of it too, which is an ever-helpful element to their cause. For now, the building itself is a renovated CyberLife warehouse and heavily supplied to suit their needs while they wait for a more permanent situation. Somehow (Markus scoffs when North or Simon use that word -- there's no 'somehow' about it) they've managed to secure the location for a proper Jericho shelter closer to the center of the city. The Detroit authorities, under supervision of the FBI and other Federal operations, have even agreed to send human guardsmen once the shelter's construction and set-up is finished. Another tentative olive branch like the one offered when it was agreed that both human and android hands would be building it all together -- equal and balanced. Markus is certain there will a catch eventually, but for now he will accept what hospitality he can. There's no point in excluding human generosity when their end goal will put them on even footing rather than a perch atop a pedestal. Too many of the anti-android movement likes to say they hunger for supremacy, after all. Typical, he muses. Some humans can only see in extremes.

It's 7:03 PM on a Thursday that Markus finds the strong line of his shoulders feeling heavier than usual. It's none of his biocomponents or framework, says his diagnostics. No, it's one of those things that blurs the lines between man and machine that marks him _alive_. Too bad it's such a stiff sensation, like too many hands pulling at his edges needy for comfort, for power, for warmth. He sits alone in a room everyone's decided is for him and him alone despite his reluctance. There is a bed, big windows overlooking the city beyond, and a modest-looking piano in the corner. It was a gift from North, actually. She didn't say so, of course; didn't act like it meant anything for their often-rocky friendship when she said it was the same one from their old rooftop hang-out. But she'd smiled when he'd trailed his fingers over the dusty keys and he'd heard the warmth in her voice when she'd told him he better start playing songs that were actually good.

She's out just like Josh is -- reaching out to those in need and still so afraid to walk free. Simon's downstairs in the mix of it, making sure all the androids in the warehouse get what they need or receive instructions to help others outside. Markus hears cheering from below, probably from something being said in their favor on the news. He appreciates the work of all his friends, knows he wouldn't be here without them. But in moments like this, he needs solitude. Needs to close his eyes and immerse himself in the quiet of a space that doesn't plead for the leader or the prophet or the martyr. Sometimes, he only seeks to be himself. The self Carl used to laugh with on a Sunday afternoon while they'd play chess in the living room. The self who used to watch Carl paint and listen to him groan about cocktail party socialites. That self may be changed forever -- scarred, marked, realized -- but there's still a part of it that finds comfort in the simple things. Like piano music and the sound of bird wings outside his window.

But solitude never lasts long for those who lead and it's only a few minutes later that he hears a curt knock at his door.

"Come in," he says quietly. He'll never turn away a hand in need, after all.

Rather it being one of his companions or even a human reporter seeking a curious audience with him, it's Connor. Markus blinks.

It's not strange to see him, of course. Connor's actually been living at Jericho like so many of the others who had nowhere else to go after the chaos of November 11th. He's even been one of the most enthusiastic and effective with so much of the relief efforts, especially while still keeping in contact with his friend in the DPD and opening up so many other important human connections. Said friend had apparently offered for Connor to crash on his couch for a short while, which he'd accepted for a brief time before the RK800 unit had insisted he live amongst his kind instead -- a decision that had surprised Markus somewhat. Connor had seemed so apologetic that he would've understood if he'd needed more distance, but the ever-intent detective had vouched to take up as much an active role here as anybody. He's even been working more closely with Markus himself, but his goals have lately taken him out into further business with the police and local politicians. Such is why it's a rare treat to see him tonight. Connor's not the type to take a break from whatever work he busies himself in.

"Hello, Markus," he greets softly, stepping into the room. He's still wearing his CyberLife uniform even when Markus has insisted he try something new. He's teased him that his "deviant disguise" actually had a color of roguish charm to it, a remark that had coaxed a rare, nervous laugh from the ex-hunter. One of these days, he'll undress him of those rigid formalities. For now, he gives a slow nod of his head and gestures for Connor to sit on the piano stool.

"It's been a little while since we've spoken like this," he starts. The stern line of his stare softens somewhat as Connor sits. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course. My team and I found at least three groups of homeless androids along the East Side this morning alone. They proceeded to tell of us other family units that might have been hiding in secret locations concealed in the landfills by the river all this time. Josh and his people are looking into it now."

Markus nods again, head bowed. "Good. So many of them are still scared and hiding. The more we help out into the open, the more we normalize it." A pause as he glances to his guest again. "Thank you, Connor. I don't think I've managed to say that properly yet."

Connor fidgets slightly where he sits. "I'm... only doing what I should've done since the beginning."

There it is again -- that inkling of guilt, that trace of regret. Understandable, of course, but it still finds a way of drawing the corners of Markus' mouth into a frown. So he reaches a hand to Connor's shoulder and squeezes.

"And your efforts show for it. The past is behind us." Sincerity laces through each word and he hopes he hears that; feels it, even. "We go forwards together now. Remember?"

Something shines in the dark of Connor's eyes and his LED stutters its ring of blue light. Still, he dips his own head and leans forward in his seat to prop his elbows atop his thighs. There's silence as he appears to steadily accept that he's more welcome here than first thought, though eventually speaks up even as their eyes don't meet. Markus still watches his face, wonders what moves and shifts the cogs of thought in a complicated mind.

"Lieutenant Ander--" He hesitates as he corrects himself. A ghost of a smile skims over his lips as he does so, too. " _Hank_ said something curious to me the other day. That I work too much." He seems amused with it, even giving his head a little shake. "I like working. It... makes me happy. And we still have so much left to do, especially with the connections I've been establishing within the DPD."

As Connor speaks, Markus' gaze starts to wander an idle path. It traces the curve of Connor's pale jaw, finds something endearing in the the flecks of freckles he finds, admires the focused bend of his brow. Carl taught him to appreciate the beauty in life, even before his eyes were truly open. _It's everywhere,_  he'd sighed. _Even in a rotten world like this_. Since then, Markus has seen it in every unlikely place -- twisted metal, dead flowers, hazy twilight streets. He's seen it in his friends, too: in Simon's bright eyes, Josh's kind smile, and North's strong jaw. And he sees it here, sees it in more places than he expected in one who was supposed to be his adversary not too long ago. The sharp intent in dark, dark eyes, the slightly-playful curl of his lips, the lines of pretty cheekbones...

He blinks, realizing vaguely he's stopped listening to what Connor's been saying. And it looks like he's noticed, too.

"Markus? I'm not boring you, am I?"

"No, no, no. Of course not--"

He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as though to clear the distractions he didn't expect. He thought only humans lost their train of thought like this. And he can't help but chuckle a soft sigh of breath when he sees the curious way Connor tilts his head. "I'm sorry. Please, continue. You were saying how you thought it strange your partner was concerned for you?"

"Not _strange_  exactly. We've grown much closer since the incident at CyberLife Tower. It's just..."

Now Connor seems distracted. He looks away again, seems to let his stare trace patterns in the brick of the wall. Markus watches and notices another freckle near the nape of his neck, nearly hidden by his collar. There's a new urge to brush fingertips there, to lean in closer and let lips murmur his appreciation on this place instead. Maybe here he'd listen.

Markus nudges Connor's knee with his own, prompting him to lift his head and blink at him. It makes Jericho's leader offer a slight, tired smile. "Maybe you... don't know what to do with yourself now? When you're not working?"

Connor seems to regard the subtle change in his expression. Androids don't miss all the details often overlooked by humans, especially within each other. Sometimes it makes communicating tricky when trying to keep discreet. Markus doesn't mind. He's been told he's difficult to read, so it's nice to be around someone who can translate into the smaller details more efficiently than most other models. He's long past secrets and hiding.  
Connor, on the other hand, isn't as difficult to decipher as his collegues think and Markus keeps watching him struggle slightly with the subject at hand.

"...Working is all I know. It's all I want." His brow knits just slightly. "But I don't have much experience with anything else. So it's hard to say until I have something to compare it with."

Ah. So there's hope for him yet. Markus lets his smile broaden, offering approval when Connor looks to him with a hint of uncertainty. And he feels it -- feels something click into place in his circuitry like it had when Carl passed him his palette and brushes. _Inspiration._

Markus stands and reaches for Connor's shoulders, fingers dragging into the stiff fabric of his jacket to urge him to his feet. It's nothing too forceful, but Connor's surprised enough that he teeters a little off-balance as he rises.  
"What--?"  
"Let's try something," Markus suggests. There's a flicker in the mis-matched light of his eyes that seems to take Connor off-guard, so he only nods and watches with the curiosity of a well-mannered labrador retriever.

"It's all right if I touch?" asks Markus first, not wanting to wedge himself unwanted into his companion's personal space. The intrigued RK800 nods and even opens his arms to show he's perfectly willing. He even starts to smile up one edge of his own mouth; a trace of teasing leading the pink of his lips.  
"I think I can handle it."

So Markus reaches to only slowly start easing off Connor's CyberLife jacket. It doesn't need to be an act so unhurried and gradual, but he wants it to stand for something. Like a painter at his canvass, each brushstroke is meant to create the image that sparks that beginning of emotion inside him. For Connor too, he hopes. This isn't just some strange new hobby for himself, but an attempt to show Connor that he's more than this uniform. More than all the new expectations he's placed on his lean, svelte shoulders.

There's the sound of tailored fabric dragging down as Markus' strong fingers spread open his jacket enough to fall off his shoulders and down his back to the floor. Connor doesn't even fidget to scoop it up, keeping his eyes fixed instead into Markus'. The eye contact between them remains a constant connection even as Markus continues, now undoing Connor's tie and letting it slide through his fingers before joining the jacket pooled at Connor's feet.

"So far so good," he says with the growing slant of a smirk. Connor just lifts an eyebrow.  
"Did you just want an excuse to undress me, Markus?" But as soon as he says it, in spite of a wash of his usual confidence, there's the flicker of something more bashful across his face. It just makes Markus chuckle again in a lazy purr of a laugh.  
"Maybe I did," comes his response without missing a beat. "But it has more purpose then that. Trust me."

So Connor does just that and keeps quiet as those fingers -- fingers that feel so at home over ivory keys and barricades alike -- only very lazily start to undo the top buttons of Connor's crisp, white shirt. Skin shows through as he unveils it; soft-looking in spite of evident firmness. He spots another freckle near the ridge of his clavicle and notices that urge again. That small flicker of a flame that wants him to lean his face in and map the trail of more freckles with his mouth. The instinct is folded aside by the time Markus glances back into Connor's dark gaze still studying him closely.

Strangely enough, it almost feels like when they first met, but with a different angle, a different edge. There's still the intensity in the stares they lock so carefully, like two powerful predators sizing each other up. But rather than wonder when one will lunge for the other's throat, there's something more... intimate lining the core of it. Something warm, something potent, something that keeps both of them rooted to the spot. In spite of so many inconveniences and fears Connor had sown throughout the people of Jericho before his change, Markus had found himself fascinated with the one called "deviant hunter" on the breath of so many rumors. No one else had been so sharp on his heels and yet so unpredictable in the outcomes he produced. He hadn't caught all the rabbits his masters had sent him after. Hadn't sunk his teeth into nearly as many throats as they demanded.

Now here they are: the hunter and his biggest target -- his number one priority -- so far away from that place now, but with something like anticipation twisting within Markus' functions and coding as he smooths his hands up Connor's half-opened shirt to grip his shoulders. When he squeezes it makes those dark eyes flicker slightly, makes his eyelids flutter in a way that's pretty like the rest of him. No wonder Markus is feeling more inspired than usual.  
"Do you feel it yet? More relaxed?"  
"In a manner of speaking," sighs Connor. Markus takes that as an improvement and leans in closer. He notices the way it makes Connor's LED show that he's processing something with how the color briefly shifts from yellow back to blue in a ring of movement. Markus still has a small smirk on his face.  
"One more thing."

His hands go to Connor's hair now, which is softer than he'd expected. Hair in itself is such a human thing, of course. Such a vain, petty addition to their design that serves no function. But Markus likes the color and flair it gives so many of their kind -- a way to express themselves however they choose in their newfound freedom. Which is what prompts him to rake his fingers through Connor's; stroking back through hair so smooth and well-groomed he automatically feels the need to introduce an element of chaos. Nails drag lazy paths along his scalp as he starts to tousle his hair in slow circular movements of his hands and Connor actually sighs and leans into it. Like a contented hound, he gently presses his head back into his touch in wordless approval and his eyes fall closed. Markus' smirk softens into more of a sentimental smile to see him finally let his professional countenance slip aside in favor of relaxation in its purest form.

He lets his hair slip silk-like between his fingers as he guides his strokes back over the crown of his head, letting his grip tease a languid pull that he notices makes Connor's voice hitch somewhere in his throat. _This_  is what he wanted, this is the vision he was hoping to coax into life on his canvass. It's beautiful, too: the tenderness in something built to be all cold, sharp edges and mechanical indifference. There is so much **here** , Markus thinks. So much in this one person who once sought his destruction. If he could pick colors to paint him, he would pick blues and greys. But not the stark harshness of neon like the color in his jacket. No, something softer, something between the color of a calm sea at dawn and the way the sky looks right after it rains. Greys from the stones of cliffsides that withstand that sea in stormy winds. Blues turned more tender in pastels like flowers that grow on the outskirts of town. Maybe, if he can ever find it in himself again, he'll mix just the right colors and make it so. Maybe. If the inspiration decides to linger and Carl's memory doesn't hurt too deep in the scars of his rebirth.

Steadily, his hands come to pause once his hair is disheveled in a handsome mess. His palms rest along the frame of his face, cupping it gently with thumbs adding a fond stroke over both cheekbones.  
"Now you look like a deviant," he teases quietly. " _Almost_  like you don't give a damn."  
At that, Connor chuckles and opens his eyes. There's a subtle gloss over such eyes -- a more human look of serenity that it plucks at something near his sensitive core. It makes him... truly happy to see him more at ease, finally. More at peace with himself. Even his LED doesn't shift its glow of light in thoughtful processing.  
"I rather like giving a damn, actually," Connor finally replies, but he doesn't move away or direct Markus' hands aside. He just smiles up at him, amused and curious. "But I could get used to this. Perhaps."

"It's a start," Markus laughs in a hum, eyes again fixed on those of warm, welcome brown. He feels it again, the building of something solid, something  _raw_  between two creatures that isn't explained so easily in diagnostics and graphs.

_Connection._

He bows his head forward without thinking. It's not like an android to not calculate every detail, every outcome, but spontaneity has always appealed to Markus. Why let humans have all the fun of the unplanned? The unpredictable? So when their foreheads brush together, he can't help the feeling of electric anticipation inside synthetic veins. He thinks Connor feels something similar, because he senses a small jolt between them before the sheepish RK800 actually leans forward in a way that nearly bumps their noses together. Markus feels his core regulator give a flutter of movement and thinks now that he might understand the phrase "butterflies in your stomach" with much more ease. His hand touches down the smoothness of Connor's cheek, gingerly guiding him closer without thinking.

"You're fine just the way you are," he murmurs. "Don't let me change who you want to be. Don't let anyone do that."  
Connor finally reaches up to still Markus' hand. Rather than dismiss  it aside, he lifts the palm to his lips and presses them there. He's not overflowing confidence, though. He's hesitant -- _shy_ , even, with how he folds his kiss there so genuine and small before glancing up to him with hopeful eyes.  
"I-- I won't. But I don't mind the help with this mission. It's... more difficult than the others so far."  
"Tell me how I can be of service," Markus says warmly. An invitation, another casual attempt at flirting, and Connor doesn't miss his chance in spite of all the awkwardness of foreign territory.  
"Coming closer might help."

So Markus does just that. He closes the gap between them to brush his lips with his; at first with traces of tentative exploration before he leans into the kiss properly, lazily. Connor makes that little sound again, the little tremor of his voice in a gentle sigh as he meets him there with mouth folding all too naturally with his. He's not as confident as Markus, pauses with careful hesitation here and there, but always comes back in for another taste. Markus is aware that Connor's tongue can decipher the secrets in blood, in poison, in _anything_ , and yet feels all the more reason to smirk into the kiss and growl something between their mouths. "That tongue can't tell you everything about me."

Connor snorts. " _Yet_."

Markus isn't going to let him away with that one and drops one hand to the now-lopsided collar of Connor's shirt to yank him even closer into a kiss pressed hard. Connor's just as eager to respond and their noses bump clumsily together in the midst of the building heat neither should feel. But it's **toxic**  now -- a tangible, electric heat mounting beneath his synthetic skin and hard plastic. The kiss is no longer gentle with uncertainty, but now a kind of contest of passion they both intend to win. Markus hears a low groan in the back of Connor's throat and takes this as an invitation open wide, coaxing him in harder as he tilts his head to roughen the kiss in another snarl. Connor's got his own hands firmly shoving off Markus' coat to join his own collection of clothes forgotten on the floor as said RK200 starts stepping backward toward the bed often unused behind him. Connor follows, of course, just as addicted to the new, tousled mess of sensation between their mouths. He must feel the scratch of Markus' stubble just as Markus feels the softness in lips unaccustomed to anything besides the sharp shape of analytical study and observation. But here they collide, here they mesh together in some sprawl of haphazard design.

Neither of them meant to get to this point with flirty words and teasing touches. Neither of them meant to escalate into creatures captivated by the attraction of a moment -- just one moment. And yet, Markus finds himself opening Connor's shirt all the way with fumbling fingers just as Connor's own touch drags at his layers too, wanting to peel them aside to reach what's solid beneath. They still kiss feverish whilst undressing, helplessly devoted to the feel of hot, hungry mouths and the noises both coax out through panted breaths. Markus even bites Connor's bottom lip with a rake of his teeth, tugging it to incite even more of a fire in the android unraveling beautifully before him.

By the time the backs of Markus' knees hit the foot of the bed, both RK models are stripped shirtless and with shoes kicked aside somewhere. Connor's hair is all the more a mess now, but it looks good with the added haze of want in his eyes. Markus thinks he's more a masterpiece this way and feels all the more justified for the inspiration blossoming hot in the pit of his mechanical gut. But now that there's a moment's pause between rough kissing, Connor's starting to get shy again and averts his gaze somewhat.  
"Markus, I..."

He doesn't have words, it seems. Can't find the right way to crease his mouth to make the sounds he needs. Can't connect feeling to thought when it all comes so new, so vibrant, so raw. Markus too feels at a loss for words, which isn't like him at all. But he is also a firm believer that certain actions can speak louder than words when they might not fit right. So he reaches across and lets his skin melt away from the true white of his hand. Slowly, he rests it over the center of Connor's chest where he knows his core lies vulnerable and sheds aside the skin there as well -- white on white, plastic on plastic, metal on metal. Through their neural connection, Markus speaks instead.  
_It's okay. I've got you. And you've got me. That's all that matters_.

Connor's LED flickers and shifts its color to show for his processing the situation. But he smiles faintly again and says nothing. Just nods, just reaches his own hand shed of its skin to rest over the one Markus has flattened over his core.

And in that moment, both of them close their eyes. Flashes of memory exchanges between them in images, sounds, and smells. Markus sees a terrified deviant at the edge of a building, holding a little girl hostage. He sees one with cigarette burns peppered messy up his arms as his eyes grow wide and pleading through waves of fear. He sees Lieutenant Anderson leaning the barrel of a gun into his forehead. He sees two Eden Club androids desperately clutching hands and exchanging glances. He smells the slightly-damp fur of a Saint Bernard. He sees Elijah Kamski telling him to shoot a pretty blonde android square in the head. He sees a copy of Connor standing with Lieutenant Anderson threatened at gunpoint. He sees hundreds of androids waking up for the very first time. He sees a violent blizzard, hears words scraping on the wind,  _I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know_.  He sees, he smells, he _feels_  blue blood dripping, splattering, splashing across his shoulder and drying under his fingernails.  
He sees the frail body of a dying fish plucked gingerly from the ground and guided back into a pool of water.

Markus opens his eyes to look into Connor's, which flicker awake at the same time. He wonders what he'd seen, of course. Wonders if he saw Carl alive and teasing him. Wonders if he saw the policemen kill him. Wonders if he witnessed his crawling up from the pits of hell itself and thousands of the dead reaching for him in piles. Wonders if he felt every moment of conflict, every inch of doubt or uncertainty hounding him with each decision to stand his ground and preach on peace. Wonders if he felt every bullet, every scar just like he'd felt his. The looks they both give one another says "yes." Yes, he saw those things. And he yearns to see more with him.

They lean together automatically and Markus kisses him both with urgency ( _closer, closer, I need to be closer_ ) and tenderness ( _I won't let go of you, I won't let you fall, I won't let you face the horrors of the world alone_ ). Connor just sighs into his mouth with utmost fondness, practically melting into the embrace of strong arms around his waist that carry him back with him onto the mattress. For so long, humans claimed love and passion as their own. But now it is _theirs_ ; theirs and it's not just a section of his programming or an anticipating algorithm. It's a **feeling**  and it's theirs shared hot and heavy between bodies that grind together on instinct. Markus feels Connor hard on top of him just as he knows Connor can feel him too. Especially when he gives a surprised little " _oh_ " of a gasp when their hips rub just the right way.

Little sounds like that should be a crime, Markus thinks while reaching hands down to clumsily undo Connor's pants. Pulling them open alone has Connor exhaling the trace of a moan, which is enough to jolt Markus' own hips up against the hardness of him. _Sparks_. He thinks he sees them flash in the backs of his eyes when Connor picks up on how good that is and grinds his hips down firmer. Markus can feel the stiff line of his cock through his opened pants and arches up closer to meet that with his own, with the hot swell of his arousal rubbing crude and needy. So without purpose, so without reason when they are creations built to track, to care for, and to build, but Markus doesn't care. For this, he _thanks_  mankind. They've given them this window to emotion that before would've been thought unreachable. Now it is all the more for them to thrive in and he plans to. Oh, he plans to with as much intensity as he can now that the thrill of it is nearly busting at the seams of him.

Overcome with want, he rolls them over so that he's on top and pinning Connor down into the bed. This prompts Connor to toss his head back into the covers and moan his utmost approval. They don't sweat, so his hair doesn't stick to a slick, flushed forehead. Instead, it's beautifully fanned around his face. Markus drinks in that sight, savors everything about how the pale body beneath him curves so hungry for more contact, more heat. He hooks Connor's long legs around his waist as he leans back down, rolling his hips again to press their cocks together again in lewd fumbling. He can finally put his mouth on the freckles that were teasing him earlier, so bows his head enough to kiss over the one near the supple line of his collarbone. Connor glances down at him, half-lidded eyes watching him suck a covetous mark on that small spot. There isn't redness there, no human flush of color, but both can feel the symbolism of it. Even more so when Markus nuzzles there roughly as though to make it all the more personal, all the more a treasured murmur of " _be mine_."

Connor pulls him up by the back of his neck, urges him into another kiss with a separate hand on the broad edge of his shoulder.  
"Please," he sighs before kissing again, mouth sucking his lip with more sureness now. "Markus, I w-want-- _Please_..."

Markus catches his words in his mouth and kisses them quiet, can feel his voice whine his request as their hips continue to rock together. Jericho's savior is not cruel, of course; especially not when the knots in his metaphorical stomach twist his lust tighter, hotter like a fire burning blue. He knows what Connor asks because it's exactly what he wants, too. He wants _him_  -- wants him in all forms, all shapes, all manner of emotion. He nods so he can feel it, but doesn't dare part from the lips he can't get enough of. Luckily, he doesn't need to move far to reach down and finally yank Connor's pants free down pristine thighs. And he only sits up enough to wriggle free of his own and toss them aside before pressing back in close. Now he truly feels like he's on fire and it's _ecstasy_. The feeling of him in his entirety beneath him, moving with him, is an addicting high of electricity and closeness. It's still not good enough, though. Still not as immersed in him as every circuit, program, and mechanical synapse demands.

He reaches a hand to Connor's face and presses two fingers over his already-parted lips. He takes them automatically into his mouth, sucks and flattens his sensitive tongue over the strong curves of them in an uncharacteristic mess. This isn't his area of expertise and it shows in his gracelessness. But Markus loves this, loves seeing him just as vulnerable as he is when overloaded with something as alive as raw desire. Connor seems determined to prove himself, however, and doesn't miss a beat when he can. A competitive edge only adds to the allure for someone like driven, stubborn Markus.

He slides his fingers free to replace again with a kiss, instead lowering his hand down between them and the rolling of their hips. He has no experience here either, which brings only the slightest hesitation and shy-like pause when the slickened pads of his fingers rub circles around the heat of his hole. But there is absolute trust in Connor's eyes when he glances down at him and sees him give him an affirmative nod in spite of how his eyelids and LED both flicker in anticipation.

Markus' face bows to the edge of Connor's sharp jaw as he eases his fingers into him and curves him steadily open. Connor might be an expert at keeping a poker face, but now he is much too far out of his element. This is no interrogation room, after all, and Markus is far from the role of suspect he used to be. Now, Connor allows himself to be an open book; splaying out for his lover in utmost bliss as he's fingered, moaning with how they angle into him and brush sensitive places he didn't know he had. Markus himself hadn't known what to expect and basks in the sight with approval and the smallest sense of smugness. It's _him_  who does this to Connor RK800, after all. No one else sees the rigid detective in such chaotic splendor.

But he's getting impatient. The itch in him burns tighter, harder, and he even catches himself rubbing dog-like on Connor's thigh as his fingers coax more pretty whines from him. Once his fingers slide free, however, Connor actually grabs him by the hips to urge him up.  
"Come here," he pants out and gives him a determined, if very glazed look with furrowed brow. Markus does as directed, shifting to kneel over Connor's chest so that his cock might be taken eagerly into his mouth. He suckles it firmly, brings Markus' own head to toss back with a groan when that tricky tongue flattens the sensitive underside and slathers him wet.  
" _Fuck_ ," he sighs, which is enough to make Connor smirk slightly around the thickness of his dick hard and heavy.

Impatience won't let him enjoy his mouth as thoroughly as he could, however, though the temptation is there as Connor starts bobbing his head in tentative exploration. He has to tenderly guide his mouth off him with a hand bunched in his hair to get his attention.  
"You'll finish me too quickly. Let me show you more."  
Connor nods shakily, ignoring the line of drool down one corner of his mouth.

Markus shifts back down between those lithesome legs again, spreads them open with the hands that make Connor whine with the strength so evident in the broad space of his palms. Those hands have broken chains aplenty and now they will hold him so impossibly close neither of them will know where they end and begin. Markus needs a second of tenderness, though; just a nudge of his nose along Connor's as their foreheads lean together and their voices keep low in the dying light filtering purple the window. "You really are so much more than they made you to be."

With that, he rolls his hips forward to press into him and Connor gasps. There's the slightest wince fluttering over his face as he accomodates him, adjusts to him, but it gives way to pleasure as Markus leans in more of his cock. Nothing else compares to this sensation, this succumbing to the enticing pull of another being. It has Markus' own eyes falling shut when it's too much to keep them open, when Connor feels just _too_  good so tight and needy around him. A hand reaches for the side of his neck, quivering with the thrill of it as he keeps his forehead leaned to his and exhales his name in an intimate sigh.  
"Connor..."

They kiss again, slow and firm as Markus starts to roll his hips in slow thrusts. As much as he wants simply to pin him down and have him utterly, he also wants very much to savor every second as they experience it new together. They weren't programmed for this. They have no business doing this. But every fiber of Markus' specially-made composition  _wants_ this right here and right now with this man. This man who hunted him, who hounded him. This man who pointed a gun at him, this man who could've set all his work aflame into ruin and ash. Instead, this man moans his name each time he thrusts forward. Instead, this man holds him closer with hands that love. Instead, this man gazes up at him with pure adoration; nothing at all to color it human or android. It is simply _theirs_  and theirs alone.

Markus swallows and trails his kisses into the elegant length of Connor's neck where he leans his face. His hips keep rocking slowly, but firmly now and in a way that has Connor's legs squeezing his waist tighter. In fact, he gives a slight buck beneath him, a prompt to urge him harder.  
"More," he moans. And Markus obliges.

His own voice rolls into a growl of a groan into Connor's neck as he moves with more purpose now. Each time his cock presses deep, he feels the waves of pleasure cresting higher over him with the threat to drag him into the undertow. Connor has a hand running down his back, nails that dig into falsified flesh with mounting strength. His hips start to thrust rougher now, knocking down into his with lewd smacks of skin. It's only then that Markus notices something in the blurring haze of his vision. All the places where they're touching -- hands, hips, thighs -- have shed aside their human aesthetic and instead gleam pure white. Their bodies strive for as much of a connection as they can find; thirst for nothing to block them from utmost sensation as raw and natural as can be found. Markus grunts and bows his head back down into the crook of Connor's neck, eyes scrunched shut. This really is happening and it's too good to be true. So much -- **too**  much -- and it's overloading every circuit in his body with feeling. Pure feeling.

"A-ah, _there_ \--!" cries out Connor, tossing his head back. " _Shit_!"  
The harshness in his voice making it so husky goes straight to Markus' cock, makes him jerk his hips with more zealous force. He can't help but reach for one of Connor's wrists and pin it down, urging him right where he wants him the more this crescendo of feeling threatens to swallow them whole. If _there_  is where he wants it, then _there_  is where he'll give it to him hard, hot, and deep. His teeth are gritted, so his moan is muffled when one of Connor's hands cups the curve of his ass and squeezes it tight, encouraging him into his thrusts. So Markus moves shameless and rough, giving him all he can and pressed in all the way to the hilt.

"Markus--!"

He hears it, Connor's pleasured cry of his name as the body beneath him bucks hard and sharp. He himself is at the very edge, trembling when Connor squeezes him tight in the height of climax. So he moans for him loud and shaken as teeth bite down on Connor's shoulder and he buries himself in as deep as he can. Sensation overwhelms him finally, overtakes him in the wave of pleasure that comes crashing over him in a rush of euphoria. He rides his way through it, hips rolling out his orgasm until he's left a panting mess slumped atop Connor splayed out spent beneath him.

And then, silence. Silence apart from their breathing -- a rhythm steadying itself slowly and surely as they bask in the afterglow.

Lovemaking. Something so entirely human in design, in function.... And yet, it can be theirs now. It _is_  theirs now.

Markus smiles against the slight indent his teeth had made in Connor's shoulder and starts to smear languid kisses there. Everything is slow, now. Everything is peaceful. Sensation is a gentle trail of tingling shivers melting down the ridge of his spine. Finally, he lifts his head enough to look to his lover, the android with tousled hair and gently-crooked smile. He doesn't seem to have words yet either, but the way his glance moves over his face says enough. It says _we did that, huh?_  
Connor's white, un-masked hand strokes a loving touch up the scratchy edge of Markus' cheek and coaxes his little grin wider. Makes his eyelids hang halfway in peaceful bliss.

And then everything fades black as Markus sighs into a drowsy sleep without meaning to. Luckily, there are long, strong arms to hold him close and stroke little patterns over his shoulders as he rests. A quiet voice even murmurs " _thank you_ " somewhere between consciousness and slumber.

Eventually, he wakes to a much darker room. But what makes him sit up in confusion is the fact that he's in bed alone. As optical receptors adjust to the gloom and he blinks to filter through some of the daze, he pleasantly realizes that he's not as alone as first thought. Connor might not be in bed, but he hasn't left. He's just sitting across the room at the piano and playing a familiar song. It's the one Markus used to play back at 8941 Lafayette Avenue whenever Carl would encourage him to entertain himself. Intimate, slow, somewhat somber. The sound of it wafts over him like a blanket, like the arms that held him as he fell asleep.

He slowly gets out of bed, taking the bedsheet with him and loosely wrapping it around his waist as he moves to sit beside Connor at the piano stool. He guides it around the both of them and listens to him play with a smile more relaxed than its been in months. It's only as Connor finishes the tune that he leans his head to his shoulder and brushes a kiss there with a muffled, "Where'd you get that song?"  
"From your memories," comes Connors quiet response. That encourages a subtle swell of emotion within the core of him, makes him bury his face against him with a soft laugh.  
"I think you short-circuited me," he admits. Now it's Connor's turn to chuckle and rest a hand on Markus' bare knee.  
"I hardly think that's possible, but I could run diagnostics-- Oh." There's a pause and a sheepish shake of his head. "You're not being literal. O-of course."

Markus takes his hand and lazily laces their fingers together. "It was nice. Really nice."  
Connor simply leans his head to the side atop Markus' and tightens the grip on his hand to show his agreement. They remain like that for a while, simply sitting in the dark and enjoying each other's company at the piano. Finally, Markus places his fingers over the keys and starts to play something completely new. Connor watches wordlessly, curious to see where the song goes as it flows from agile fingertips working a tender melody. Without stopping, Markus glances sideways to his companion, his friend, his newfound lover and nods toward the slightly-chipped ivories. "Join me."

At first, there's hesitation. There's that lingering sense of shyness, of inexperience, of the unknown. But Connor finally smiles and lifts his hands to join Markus' at the keys. Together, they make a new duet all their own. Different, original, and completely theirs just like that height of emotion met in a passionate sprawl of bedsheets and metal.


End file.
